


WHEN WAR WAGES

by litwick



Category: Free!
Genre: Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, God of War - Freeform, Gods, Immortality, M/M, Rin Cries a Lot, Romance, haru sometimes yells at him, jaded immortals, not graphic though, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9252278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/litwick/pseuds/litwick
Summary: In a valley ravaged by bloodshed, few things are left holy. The God of War, tired and world-weary, wanders the battlefield to comfort the fallen. He seeks absolution in death, but Death—who is more than a god, more than immortal—refuses to take him.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So this fic deals with a lot of death? No major character death, but Rin, as the very jaded God of War, openly craves death. Rin’s not a traditional “Ares” War God, so it’s a lot of waxing poetic about what “death” would mean to an immortal-by-default being who desperately needs rest. That said, if you are easily off-put by these kinds of themes, please tread carefully.

Rin has walked this valley before. 

It sits nestled along the frontier of two regions, and it has hosted every border dispute, invasion, and civil war between them since the beginning. He has seen battles of stone, bronze, iron, and steel set this forest ablaze time and again, leaving behind scorched earth and rotting corpses. Rin will walk this valley each time a new mortal disagreement arises, will see whatever new metals they fashion their weapons from. He knows, from experience, that it will never become any easier to watch.

In peacetimes, the valley grows green again. Trade flourishes, and sometimes entire villages are built. The dirt is fertile and good for farming, so food is plentiful. Rin can catch his breath.

These villages are always the first to go whenever war breaks out. These people are always the first to be caught unaware, forced to either flee or fight. They’re the first to lose everything. 

Rin can’t even remember what this most recent war is about. The valley hasn’t been green in over three decades; neither side has given any ground in this in this never-ending battle of attrition. It’s here, where the two sides meet, that Rin is needed most. He stitches up as many as he can, and he comforts the ones that he can’t—there’s no higher being a god can pray to, so it’s the only way he knows how to ask for forgiveness. 

Meanwhile, he hears every single whispered prayer for the war to end, for him to _please, stop_. They reverberate in his mind as he moves from patient to patient, from corpse to corpse as the casualties mount ever higher. He does what he can, but even he can’t solve the conflicts of mortals for them; he can only serve the injured and hope for the best. Reason and diplomacy, crafts best left to their patron gods, are not for him to meddle in.

Sometimes, when there’s a lull in fighting, Rin builds up enough courage to sit down with the troops outside the stifling frenzy of his medic tent. He’s always accepted into the fold quickly—he’s pieced enough of them back together that they know his to be a friendly face. They’re more than happy to break bread with him, to share what they have. Rin always politely declines, still unwilling to take anything more from these people. 

This time, when he slips into conversation with a ring of soldiers by the rations wagon, they offer him a seat around their fire. Rin gratefully accepts, settling in next to a blond man (boy, really) who looks much too young for the frontlines. He whittles away at a block of wood in his hand, humming under his breath to the song a man much older than him sings. Wrinkled fingers pluck at the strings of a battered lute, and the old timer’s wavering voice carries upward with the smoke and embers from the campfire. 

The tune is a sad one, one that’s usually sung after a close friend falls on the battlefield. Rin knows it well.

_When War wages, Death follows him close behind_  
_Beloved brother, find peace in sleep, and wait for me_  
_And when Death comes for me as he did for you_  
_Our souls will know each other again in paradise_

The notes taper off into silence and the old man sets his lute aside to cradle his head in his arms. His shoulders tremble with suppressed sobs, and the soldier next to him—dark hair, tired eyes—presses a hand to his back in sympathy. He sighs long and low, and clears his throat to lead the circle in a short prayer. It’s the same one each soldier repeats at the beginning and end of every battle; each syllable is seared into Rin’s very being. 

“We pray to Life for another chance, to Death for an easy passing, and to War for mercy. Grant us guidance, wisdom, and strength.” He pauses, uncertain, and adds a few words more. “God of War, we have fought long and hard. If you can find it in your heart to forgive us for our sins, we beg you to end this bloodshed and send us home.”

There are a few muttered affirmations from the rest of the soldiers, but the spell of camaraderie is broken. They peel off one by one and go their separate ways—the old man, Rin notices, trudges toward the burial grounds, head bowed and lute grasped in a white-knuckled hand. Before long, only Rin and the blond boy are left huddled together by the fire in the late evening’s chill. His block of wood is smaller, and Rin can recognize a crude shape begin to take form. 

Suddenly, the knife slips in the boy’s hand and slices a deep red crescent into his palm. Blood sullies the wooden cat’s flank, and he drops both with a muffled curse. Bringing the fresh wound to his mouth, he retrieves the figure from the dirt and frantically tries to wipe the stain away with the pad of his thumb. It’s no use; crimson has already settled into the fine-grained surface of the bone-white wood. Wordlessly, Rin reaches into the pocket of his cloak for a roll of bandages and offers them to him. He accepts with a nod and binds his hand tightly. 

“What would you say to him, if you had the chance?”

“What?” His voice is distant as he flexes his fingers and winces slightly. 

“The God of War. What would you say to him?” 

He huffs, bending at the waist to pick up the fallen whittling knife. He resumes the task, slivers of wood curling off the the block as he works. 

“I’d ask him if he’s had his fill yet.” 

. . .

The next time Rin sees the blond boy, it’s deep in the battlefield. He lies, shivering, in a heap behind an overturned cart, clutching at the open wound on his abdomen. Rin can tell with just one look that he won’t survive—the gash is too deep, and Rin has run out of bandages and thread. He keeps his face carefully neutral as he sinks to his knees beside him, carding soothing fingers through strands of dirty gold hair. The child whimpers and reaches out for a hand, and Rin takes it in his own. 

“I don’t want to go yet,” He confesses, tears leaking from his brown eyes. 

“I know. It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

He retracts his shaking hand for a moment and digs into the pocket of his uniform. He pulls out a wooden figurine of a cat and presses it to Rin’s palm. 

“Can you give this to my younger sister for me? She lives in the orphanage the next town over. It’s not that far. I-I promised her a kitten for her birthday.” He’s gasping, and Rin has to lean in close to hear him. 

Rin nods and tucks it away. “I promise I will.” 

The boy sighs. “Good.” 

Rin talks to him for as long as he needs, and brushes his eyes closed when his heart finally gives out. He can’t bring himself to just leave him there, though, so he draws his knees to his chest, buries his head in his arms, and tries desperately to block out the prayers of dying soldiers. 

He’s never lingered so long after a passing before—he tries to give Death’s hooded figure as wide of a berth as he can. Truth be told, Rin is afraid of him, afraid of his looming absoluteness and ability to _take_ what he has tried so desperately to keep. While they sometimes sight each other from across the battlefield, they do not lock gazes. They do not exchange words. 

This time, when Death approaches to collect the boy, Rin does not back down.

Rin doesn’t even know this child’s name. He doesn’t need to—he’s one of thousands to breathe his last in Rin’s arms, one of thousands that he’s had to turn over to Death’s custody. The eons have instilled this process in him; it runs through his veins like ichor. But even the never-ending changing of seasons cannot make it any easier to swallow, and Rin decides that this time, he can take no more. 

“Give him back,” he pleads. 

Death’s hand stills as he reaches toward the child, but he drops it as he straightens and draws back his hood. His eyes are a vibrant, lively blue—unexpected, for a being with a domain such as his. Rin is helpless to look away from his open, unabashed scrutiny. 

“His soul is not mine to give back. I cannot restore life any more than you can end conflict. It is my duty to observe and retrieve, not to intervene.” His voice flows like water; it crashes against Rin like waves on a cliff face. 

_“Then take me too.”_

“I cannot.” 

Rin exhales, breath leaving his lungs in an ugly, strangled sob. “Please. I can’t keep watching them kill one another. End it all.” 

“Your life is bound to the existence of mankind. So long as there are mortals, there will be war. Your job is not done yet.” Death crouches to Rin’s level and cups his face in cold hands. “They need you, God of War.” 

Rin shudders and nods. He gives the fallen boy’s hand one last squeeze. “Go in peace,” he whispers. 

Death pulls his hood back into place and takes his charge without another word. He is gone before Rin can even think to say goodbye. He waits for the pounding of his heart to slow and makes the trek back to his medic tent—the fight still rages on, and Rin has a duty to the injured. 

. . .

Rin hasn’t left the frontlines since the war first broke out over thirty years ago. He has no right to, really; he is the patron god of the battlefield, and it is his burden to watch over its penitents— _his_ penitents. So long as the mortals fight, Rin cannot abandon his post. 

But that doesn’t stop the wooden toy and his promise from pressing on his shoulders with all the weight of an artillery cannon. The figurine turns molten in his breast pocket, burning a hole through the fabric of his clothing to singe the skin on chest. The boy’s last words— _“Can you take this to her? It’s not far”_ —echo in his ears endlessly, and when Rin bear it no longer, he packs a small bag and departs. 

He doesn’t quite know how to reconcile the shame he feels in leaving with the guilt he bears in staying. 

Still, Rin finds an odd kind of comfort in the beaten path he travels. The landscape is ravaged and the trees are barren, but it’s quiet. And, in the growing distance, the hum of prayer becomes fainter and fainter until it’s just a gentle buzzing at the back of his head. For the first time in a long time, Rin can hear himself think. 

“You shouldn’t be here.” 

Rin can’t help it: he startles. Death is impossibly light on his feet, even for a god. He melts into view on the path in front of Rin, sharp eyes glinting in the early dawn.

“This isn’t the kind of promise I can retract.” 

“Why not?” Death intones. “What obligation do you have to carry out the whims of the dead when your task is to watch over the living?” 

“A soldier’s last wish is more than a whim. How can I call myself a god if I can’t even grant a young man’s dying request?” Rin keeps his gaze downcast. 

“How can you call yourself a god if you aren’t there for your people?” 

Anger pricks at Rin’s chest, and, for a moment, Rin feels like a much younger god—easily baited and quick to quarrel. “Do you feel nothing for them? Do you watch the carnage without understanding the loss?” 

Death’s temper rises to meet his own. His dark brows draw together in cold fury, and his tone turns mocking and bitter. “I have seen more loss than you, God of War. I have collected every mortal that was gone too soon from this world. I have collected gods. One day, when mankind no longer walks this earth, I will collect you too.” 

_“I look forward to it,”_ Rin retorts evenly. 

Death does not balk at Rin’s resignation, but his indignation cools. “Run your errand,” he sighs, rubbing at his forehead tiredly. “But know that little good ever comes from gods attempting to comfort humans in matters of mortality. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” 

The sides of Rin’s mouth quirk upward in a rueful, self-deprecating smile. “You must think me foolish to not heed Death’s warning.” 

“Haru. My name is Haru.” 

“Haru, then. Until we next meet.” Rin brushes past him, clasping a hand on Haru’s left shoulder briefly in farewell. 

“We’ll see one another again soon, Rin.” His voice is heavy and certain. 

. . .

The matron at the orphanage is a stern woman with hair the color of steel, and she doesn’t bat an eye when Rin states his business. The people on both sides of this war have seen their fair share of suffering; the decades’ worth of grim tidings have left her eyes hardened and almost apathetic. 

“I’m sorry to hear about the Hazuki boy, Doctor,” she murmurs. She offers him a cup of tea, but Rin declines—tea is unsurprisingly scarce in this area, and, like always, his conscience won’t let him accept such a gift. “Nanako was looking forward to his visit. She’ll be devastated to hear of his passing.” It’s not an accusation, but it twists Rin’s heart all the same. 

She sends a sullen, green-eyed boy to fetch the younger Hazuki, and Rin’s hands grow clammy in the wait. He swallows the blind panic that rises in the back of his throat, blunt nails printing small white crescents into his palms. The only thing grounding Rin to his seat is the sound of his pulse pounding in his ears, a solemn reminder that, despite everything, his heart still beats. Do mortals squirm like this when they await a god’s judgment? 

The floorboards creak with Nanako’s approaching footsteps, and Rin shakes himself out of his panicked daze to greet her. He can barely register his own voice as he haltingly explains the circumstances of her older brother’s death, and each tear that falls from her brown eyes puts another crack in his resolve. 

She takes the proffered wooden cat in pale hands and scratches at the brown splotch on the flank with a ragged fingernail. Her inhales come faster and faster until she is gasping between sobs, and Rin’s insides are left smoldering in helplessness. His mouth opens to say _something_ to comfort her, to put an end to her crying, but before he can summon the words, she turns on her heel and whips the figurine at the worn hardwood floors. It splinters on impact, shrapnel ricocheting off the surface and finding purchase in her bare arm. Another sliver hits Rin in the cheek, but it does not break his skin. 

Gods don’t bleed, after all.

Nanako’s narrowed eyes glow with pure, unadulterated hatred. She points an accusatory finger at Rin’s bewildered face, and he knows that somehow, she recognizes him for who he is. 

_“You did this,”_ she hiccups. Her voice is raw and strained. “It’s your—”

Dimly, Rin sees the matron cuff her on the head in scandal. Nanako is herded out the door in a flurry of skirts and sharp words, and once she’s gone, the matron begins profusely apologizing, cheeks aflame in embarrassment. Rin doesn’t hear her. He’s already on his feet, stumbling blindly toward the exit as the room spins around him. 

He runs. He puts as much distance between himself and the orphanage as he can before he slows to a stop and collapses. 

Haru finds Rin by the wayside, tears trailing down his face and leaving angry red streaks in their wake. Silently, he lowers himself to the ground next to him, close enough to press his side against Rin’s. 

“You were right,” Rin admits softly.

“I know.” 

“I shouldn’t have gone.” 

“Probably not.” 

“I just—I didn’t think that—” 

“It’s not your fault. Gods don’t experience death the way mortals do; they can’t understand the pain they feel when they lose someone precious to them. And try as they might, mortals can’t understand the duties of gods. They pray for outcomes and dreams that even gods cannot grant. They rely too heavily on divine intervention.” There is a familiar note of exhaustion in Haru’s voice. Rin realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he has heard it, over and over again, in his own. 

“So what about you?” Rin asks. 

“What about me?” 

“Death is your quarry. You understand it more than anyone else, do you not?” 

Rin’s question gives Haru pause. He worries at his bottom lip, mulling over his answer before responding. “No. In a way, I know it the least. While some call me the God of Death, I am no god. Once they can no longer serve a purpose, gods die, just like mortals. However, I… I cannot. Just as there will always be life on this Earth, there will always be death to end it. My job will never be done, and I will never see an afterlife.” 

Rin sighs, tilting his head skyward. “Mortals have it all wrong, don’t they?” 

Haru shrugs. “To be fair, most gods have it wrong too.” 

Haru walks him all the way back to the frontlines.

. . .

The war ends. It takes five more long years of pointless bloodshed, but the kings on both sides eventually agree to a ceasefire. A peace treaty is signed by some aristocrats who have never even bothered to see the destruction, and the soldiers are finally allowed to go home to piece together the smoking remains of their countries. 

In the meantime, Rin wanders, medic pack in tow. Instead of pulling out arrows or sewing up sword wounds, he sets bones broken in farming accidents and offers clean bandages to children with skinned knees. It’s the most tranquil he ever feels, but Rin is always careful to leave before anyone can think to learn his name or ask his story—sooner or later, someone is bound to notice how he doesn’t age with the rest of them. It’s worlds different from the anonymity of the battlefield; there, few live long enough to realize that he’s been a presence since the very beginning. 

Fifteen years after the war grinds to a halt, Rin allows himself to return to the valley once more. He finds that the grass has grown back, and that the birds have returned to the trees. New houses, filled with new families, dot the mountainside. To Rin, it feels like relief. Sometimes, in the process of watching humans fall to one another, he forgets how resilient mortals and the lands they cultivate can be. 

As grateful as he is to see the people thriving, however, Rin cannot shake the unease that flares in the pit of his stomach whenever he glimpses the familiar contours of the landscape. If he lets his mind idle too long, images from wars—ancient, recent, and likely some that have yet to pass—will flash in the peripherals of his vision, shattering any sense of comfort he has built up. Rin can’t linger here. Besides, he knows he will be called to the valley again before long—as pleasant as these moments of repose are, they are just that: moments. 

He keeps his head down and his pace brisk as he treks through the greenery. He doesn’t want to spend any more time in this liminal space than strictly necessary. 

It’s the whisper of a prayer, muted and a little garbled, that stops him in his tracks. His head has been free of others’ voices for almost twenty years—in peacetimes, few remember the God of War. Rin hesitates. It would be easy enough to ignore; he’s close enough to the border that he could slip away without a second thought. 

_Rin, please. Are you there?_

It’s like a homing beacon. Rin’s feet move on their own to follow the faint trail that the prayer weaves toward its source. He doesn’t even realize that the penitent used his given name—information that not many mortals are privy to. He doesn’t notice that the path he walks leads directly to the orphanage that he blindly fled from all those years ago. 

In retrospect, it makes sense that the prayer would trace directly to Death.

“Haru?” He’s perched on the marble bench that sits just outside the orphanage’s wrought-iron fence, hands folded and eyes closed. When Rin calls out to him, they open, and he shifts over so Rin can sit beside him. 

“I wasn’t sure you were going to come. How long has it been?” Haru smiles thinly. 

Rin shrugs. “Long enough.” A terse silence hangs between them, but it’s not unpleasant. Belatedly, Rin realizes that, despite the tension, they’re happy to see one another. 

“The Hazuki girl—she’s matron of the orphanage now—” Haru takes a deep breath and swallows thickly, composing himself. “She’s dying, Rin. She caught some illness from one of the children, and she’s not going to make it, not like this. There’s no one nearby who knows how to treat her.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” 

Haru turns to face Rin more fully, blue eyes burning brighter than Rin has ever seen them. “You’re a doctor. Can you save her?”

He’s a completely different god than he was on the battlefield with Rin. Gone is the resigned, omniscient air that swathed him then. His shoulders curl in on themselves, and he looks, for all the world, like an old man who has borne witness to too much. Is this what Haru saw in him, when Rin asked him to cut his life short?

Instinctively, Rin laces his fingers through Haru’s and squeezes his palm gently. He half expects him to pull away, but Haru squeezes back. “I can’t,” he says. “I can cauterize wounds and perform surgery, but I’ve never dealt in illness or disease before. I wouldn’t know where to start. I’m sorry.” 

Haru nods as if he were expecting it. He probably was. 

“Do… Do you need to…?” Rin can’t quite utter the words ‘collect her,’ but Haru seems to understand anyway. 

“Not yet, but soon. She’s a fighter.” 

“I’m starting to think the entire Hazuki clan was.” 

Haru laughs, a little hollowly. “They were. Each one tried to keep me at bay until the very end: the father, the mother after him, and, of course, the son. I was hoping the daughter would get to hold out for a little longer, but Life can be cruel sometimes.” He pauses. “Well, I suppose Death can be crueler.” 

“Hey,” Rin admonishes lightly. “You do not divine who lives and who dies. The mortals may not know it, but they need you, Haru. Who else will shepherd them from this world to the next?” 

“I know,” he sighs. “I just… I wish I couldn’t feel how much they begrudged me for it.” 

Rin finds himself wondering just how many souls Haru has gathered. He wonders how many of them went peacefully, and how many of them thrashed in panic as he tried to coax them toward permanent rest. He wonders whether Haru has ever been afforded a reprieve like Rin has. He knows that no words could possibly lift his exhaustion, so he just pulls Haru close and holds him. He stiffens in surprise for a moment, but relaxes and nestles closer soon after. 

They stay like that—Haru’s head pillowed on Rin’s shoulder, Rin’s arms looped around Haru’s waist—for a few minutes longer. Then, Haru gingerly extracts himself from Rin’s grasp, but not before giving his hand another squeeze in reassurance. 

Death clears his throat and straightens his back. “It’s time,” he says. “She needs me.” 

“May she go in peace.” 

“May she go in peace,” Haru echoes. “Thank you for finding me, Rin. Until we next meet.” 

Rin hums in agreement. “Until we next meet. Hopefully it won’t be so long this time.” 

. . .

It isn’t. Haru is more open-handed with his visits from then on out, occasionally intercepting Rin when he strays far enough from civilization. The people can’t see him like they can the God of War, but they can feel him like a looming sense of finality, terrible and absolute. They’re understandably tense with foreboding whenever Death is nearby, so Haru does his best to keep his interactions with humanity at a bare minimum. He doesn’t say so aloud, but Rin knows that the mortals’ misgivings grate on Haru more than he lets on. While the strain of rejection doesn’t boil over again like it did at the orphanage, Rin catches all the wistful looks that Haru casts toward the pinpricks of light from the villages they skirt. 

“Do you pity me?” Haru asks one night, when they’re huddled together by the fire Rin built. It’s nearing winter, and though neither of them feel the cold as deeply as mortals do, it’s nice to keep warm together. 

“What?” Rin asks, concerned. 

“Do you pity me?” Haru repeats. His expression is carefully blank. 

Rin remembers the isolation and the animosity that Haru undergoes at the hands of those whom he is charged with protecting. He thinks back to the last (and only) time Haru truly prayed to him, when he couldn’t quite bring himself to collect someone who denied him so vehemently. 

“A little bit,” Rin answers truthfully. “But I also admire you. You’re the most dedicated and resolute being I know, to be able to do what you do day in and day out.”

Haru doesn’t answer, but he buries a smile in the juncture of Rin’s neck. 

. . .

They fall into a routine. While they can’t see each other that often—Rin still treats the injured, Haru still tends to the dying—they make as much time as they can. They find one another in forests and by cliffsides, on moonless nights and frostbitten days; it’s easy enough when Rin can hear Haru call out to him in prayer. They twine their hands together and talk in low voices until a soul calls Haru away or Rin has to move on to the next town. 

Sometimes, Rin brings Haru gifts: books, paintings, the odd bottle of wine—things that Rin considers to be the best representation of what humanity has to offer (things that would never freely be offered to Haru). He marvels at each one, but always asks Rin to return them when he’s had his fill—except the wine, which they usually split over a crackling campfire. Rin understands that it’s not at all a loss of interest; he recognizes the guilt that Haru feels in taking from mortals as the same kind he feels in taking from soldiers. Without question, Rin complies and donates each piece to libraries or town halls when he passes by. 

One night, in the creeping chill of mid autumn, it all comes to a screeching stop. Somewhere, a bronze bell begins to toll, each chime crashing through Rin like a stone through glass. He drops the stack of firewood he’d been gathering. He feels like a raft in a hurricane; his pulse pounds in his ears like the breaking of ocean waves. The deafening peals knocks him to his hands and knees, and Rin dry heaves on the forest floor in pavlovian hysteria.

It’s happening. The first blow has been dealt. 

The country is at war again. 

Haru finds him, and Rin can tell with just one desperate look that he knows, that he too has felt the first blood send shockwaves through the earth’s crust. 

“We have to go to them.” He’s composed. Resigned. 

“I can’t do this. Not again,” Rin is pleading, begging Haru for some kind of absolution that he can’t offer. 

“They’re your people. You have to, Rin.” 

Rin swallows and turns quiet. “What if I don’t?” His voice is barely louder than a whisper. “What if we just left? Haru, we could go anywhere. We don’t have to stay.” 

“Yes, we do.” 

“Who’s going to hold us accountable, Haru? What more can we give that we haven’t already? What more can we _take?_ ” Rin is back by the overturned cart, cradling the Hazuki boy in his arms. Haru looks at him with the same cold scrutiny that he did then, all traces of fondness or trust completely swept from his face. Rin hasn’t been afraid of Haru in a long, long time, but a shiver of trepidation crawls up his spine at Haru’s blank indifference. 

“Who’s going to hold us accountable?” he asks, incredulity blossoming in his voice. “Rin, we serve the mortals, not the other way around. While the lives of gods are tied to the existence of their worshippers, gods cannot continue to live if they renounce their purpose. Once you stop performing your duties, that’s it. I collect you, and a new god is born to take your place.” 

“Then maybe it’s time I was replaced by another. I can’t watch them tear each other apart anymore, Haru. I’m done.” Rin is calm. He rights himself, dusting off his cloak as he pulls himself to a stand. He gathers the fallen firewood. He’s wanted this—rest, clemency—for centuries. Now that it’s finally within grasp, he feels lighter, like his soul (if he even had one) could slip right through his skin and ascend without obstacle. 

_“How dare you,”_ Haru snarls. His hands are balled up into fists at his sides, and his entire body trembles with thinly-veiled rage. “Do you know that there’s not a day that goes by that I don’t dread eventually having to collect you? And you want to cut our time together even shorter?” 

Rin’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Do you know that you’re the only one who can stand to be near me?” he continues, unrelenting. His sharp blue eyes bore holes into Rin’s back. “Do you know that without you, I have no one?” 

“My duties aren’t to you, they’re to the soldiers,” Rin says. It’s the truth, but it hangs heavy on his conscience like a boldfaced lie. 

“Maybe so,” Haru allows, apathetic. “I’m selfish; I want you to myself so I won’t have to be alone. But you, Rin… you’re a coward.” 

“I’m sorry, Haru.” Rin attempts to placate, tone even and careful. “But I’m not like you. I can’t keep doing this for an eternity. It ends here.” 

“Fine. Run, then. I’ll see you soon enough either way.” 

Haru’s ragged black cloak swirls as he stalks away, disappearing into the dark of the forest without even footprints to suggest that he was there in the first place. 

Rin bundles the wood more tightly into his arms and returns to camp. For the first time in his life, he wonders how many days (hours? years?) he has left.

**Author's Note:**

> The bad news: This story is (probably) a two-parter, and i'm not done with the second half yet. The good news: i've already started working on it! 
> 
> I would like to offer my undying thanks to Aaron, my best friend and platonic soul mate, for being my beta reader. This story would probably still be stuck in my "to-do" pile without your unending patience and encouragement. 
> 
> Follow me on tumblr (if you want): http://sailorlunatone.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you all for reading!


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